hang myself tomorrow unless she comes
by hyacinthian
Summary: He finds validation in the subway tunnels for the life he never thought he'd be living. MarkAddison.


**A/N**: Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Mark/Addison. Backstory-ish.

* * *

_**Estragon**: It's not nice of you, Didi. Who am I to tell my private nightmares to if I can't tell them to you?  
**Vladimir**: Let them remain private. You know I can't hear that.  
**Estragon**: There are times when I wonder if it wouldn't be better for us to part.  
**Vladimir**: You wouldn't go far.  
**Estragon**: That would be too bad, really too bad. Wouldn't it, Didi, be really too bad? When you think of the beauty of the way. And the goodness of the wayfarers. Wouldn't it, Didi?_

--Waiting for Godot

* * *

She files her nails, keeps them neatly trimmed to a soft, curved smoothness. He looks at them sometimes, a little smudge of perfect socialite Manhattan when they're stuck someplace else. Her hair is always a little unkempt, her smile a little too fleeting. They sit in a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant on the Lower East Side, someplace Derek would never take her; he has a cigarette in his mouth and she has one in her hand. They all have their dirty little secrets; they have each other, have the taste of addiction lingering on their lips and tongues when Mr. Perfect rolls back around. She flicks the ashes off, licks her lips.

"Do you think he knows?" There's a smooth undercurrent of anxiety beneath her cool sophistication, like the layers of a fine wine. He wonders if she thinks of him when Derek takes her to the opera, wonders if she smells the smoke of the other socialites and imagines the feeling of his fingers on her skin. He doesn't think about it too much, just inhale and exhale. She is like a wisp of smoke, and he knows the futility of trying to capture it.

They walk along Sixth Avenue, up towards where they work. The city bubbles busily around them and the pollution clouds their eyes, their judgment. They twine their fingers as they walk. He points towards the Empire State Building, feeling a little dizzy as the newspaper scraps swirl with the wind at his feet, a tiny eddy of dust and grime against his ankles. "That's our north star," he says, with a twinkle in his eye.

She rolls her eyes. "Was that your Cary Grant?"

He pulls a face, exaggerates it a little more. "No," he says, "That was my Cary Grant." She throws her head back and laughs, a full laugh that tinges her cheeks pink and makes him feel breathless. It's times like these, moments like these, that he loves. He feels like he's in the presence of something...real - like an untamed wild horse or something. "So what does that make you, Deborah Kerr?"

Her eyes narrow for a second, but then she shrugs. "I do have red hair."

"Never heard you sing, though." A chill wind blows through and he tugs her towards him, wraps an arm around her. She leans against him, feels...something. It could be love, but she's not sure it is - she had always thought that what she felt for Derek was love. (And even if it wasn't, she's committed to him now - I meant what I said and I said what I meant, an elephant's faithful, one hundred percent.) Bound to a man by Dr. Seuss. She turns her gaze skyward. She's sure stranger things have happened. It is Manhattan.

They lounge at his place, smoking cigarettes, her head nestled against his shoulder, the TV on low. He doesn't ask where Derek is - she doesn't ask if he loves her (she has a sneaking suspicion). But it's hard to top perfection, and this - it feels like it, but it doesn't all at the same time. Her cell phone buzzes on the table. She picks it up. He mutes the television. "Hello? Hey, baby." She stubs out the cigarette and runs out the door. He doesn't ask questions, has learned from all of this. Just leans back on his sofa, his arm still ghosting around where her form used to be; the wind blows through the window and the end of his cigarette smolders away.

Derek invites him over for dinner a week later. They drink red wine out of the right glasses and he sips at it like a connoisseur. Addison's hair is pin-straight tonight, tied back neatly (he wonders if Derek's ever taken the time to notice how the ends of her hair curl just so when they're damp, tiny ringlets that remind him of halos). They drink espresso after dinner and Derek exchanges a small joke with him. He smiles.

The goodbyes come simply, smoothly. He gives Derek a fierce hug, and Addison hugs him then afterward; her lips graze his cheek like a second death. He smiles and heads outside. On the stoop, he lights up and inhales quickly (a little too quickly). The smoke burns its way down as he heads towards the subway station.

He never asked to be Lancelot in the first place, he thinks as he skips the way down towards the A. He sits on the empty bench as it bounces and weaves its way down the line. The man across from him leers.

"Maybe we all alone out there, brother," he murmurs.

Mark just huffs out a small chuckle. "Yeah. Maybe."

"I got'chu," the man finishes with a small nod. He passes into the next subway car. The tunnel rockets past in a blur of darkness.


End file.
